A Whistling Woman (32 page)

“We shall see, as to that,” said Artegall. “Books describe the world,
and are useful. It is only that I have never been permitted to go outside
my study. That will change now.”

“We must all go together,” said Dol Throstle. “And we must pretend,
if we are found, to be one family, so we shall be harder to find. You must
pretend to be brothers.”

“That is a good idea,” said Artegall.
“You won't find it easy,” said Mark.

“Wait and see,” said Artegall.

Everyone congratulated her on her reading. Leo opened his book, and held it close to his face.
“No one has seen the Whistlers and lived,” said the thrush. “Indeed
even to hear them is fatal. They glide or fly like grey shadows and
make a high whistling sound at the edge of what other creatures can
hear ...”
He closed the book with a snap. He went and kissed Agatha.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the dedication.”

His face was hot, shining with the reflected colours of the lights on the tree. He went quickly out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind him. Frederica's straining ears heard him creep up the stairs. Daniel and Winifred congratulated Agatha, and Saskia's book was examined and exclaimed over.

Bill said to Frederica “He wasn't reading, was he? He had it by heart.”

Frederica found tears in her eyes.

“He won't admit he doesn't read. I don't know what to do. He has your—our—temper. He's proud.”

“You have to do something
now,
or it's too late. Better someone else, not you, at least at first. Can I talk to him? Can I talk to Margaret Godden at the Freyasgarth school? She always had all her first class reading before they went up. Then she got a directive, saying they shouldn't be driven, they should learn in their own good time, when they were ready. It doesn't work.”

Frederica stared at him. The tears brimmed.

“You can't teach him and cry over him. Let me try. Can't do much in a short holiday. Can make a start. I've become a reformed character. Patience itself. And anyway, I was always a good teacher. And he reminds me of myself, Frederica. I had trouble starting—”

“
You
did?”

“I used to play that trick. Reciting from memory. I recognised the look.”

Frederica never knew what her father said to her son. She overheard the beginning of the conversation, the sound of Bill's voice, reasonable, quiet, adult, man-to-man, and she crept away. Later she saw the two walking together into the village, two stocky, wiry creatures, one flaming, one faded. They called on Margaret Godden, the Freyasgarth headmistress, who later came to see Frederica, with a professional diagnosis of Leo's reading. Leo came back skipping. He and Bill vanished again into Bill's study. She heard her son's voice making primitive sounds. a. b. c. (s) d. s.n.a.(ay)k.(silent e). The s.n.a.k.e. ate (ay-t silent e) the a.p.p.l. (silent e). U.n.d.e.r. the tree. ee. I saw a d.r.a.g.o.n. The m.a.n. and the w.o.m.a.n. are under the tree in the g.ar.d.e.n. The snake is in the tree. The apple is on the tree. The snake smiles. He g.i.v.es the apple to the w.o.m.a.n.

In this case, said Miss Godden, in the beginning must be phonics. Your son is not severely dyslexic—he reverses his writing, but his memory retains letters and forms in a normal way. He is a boy who needed to be taught to analyse the sounds of letters, and he appears to have been given the “freedom” to find his own way with “Look and Say.” I suspect he was under some strain at the moment when he was being required to recognise “aeroplane” and “house” and “machine.” He is a boy who needs—as most of us need—precise forms of thought into which to stitch or slot his discoveries and inventions. Most of us are enabled by knowing the alphabet by heart, without thinking about it, and the possible sounds of the letters. As most of us are enabled by knowing the patterns of the multiplication tables, both visually and aurally. It is not helpful to expect children, as many modern teachers do, to discover multiplication and division for themselves, or to organise their own idiosyncratic alphabet. Rote learning is not a form of torture or inhibition. It is a tool. Also a pleasure. In the case of a child like your son, whose memory is organised in his particular way, it is a necessity. No one should make a means into an end. You don't learn the alphabet in order to know it, but in order to
use
it. But knowing is a human pleasure. Like perspective drawing, or staying afloat in water.

Miss Godden was tall, with a mass of hair like white wool. She wore a straight-down fir-green woollen dress, and had a face at once severe and kind. She had brought with her a box of hand-made reading cards she had made for children like Leo, cards where the words were interesting, where there were rhymes and tales of adventure, not only washing-up and going out to a shop in a car. Later cards had sound-games. “Though I peer through the boughs I shall hear no sound.” She left the box with Bill. The man and the boy closed themselves into the study and chanted together. Frederica heard Leo singing on the stairs. “The single silly starling stands and sings in the stinging rain. The rain hisses. The rain sings. The wind blows the rain.”

Bill told Frederica that Leo was making giant strides. It was all coming together. Frederica burst into tears.

“What's all this about? Margaret Godden says he'll be fine. He'll learn. He'll catch up.”

“We shall be back in London in ten days. He'll be back at that school.”

Bill said “You wouldn't consider leaving him here for a while? He'd be happy at the Freyasgarth school. It'd suit him. We've got Will and Mary—”

“I can't.”

“Think about it. Not forever. Just a term would make all the difference. Little boys go away to school at his age.”

Frederica wept as though she herself was the small child, facing separation. After a moment, Bill put an awkward hand on her heaving shoulder.

“You're
my
child. I care about you, too. You must do what you want.”

“What
ought
I to want?” asked Frederica, wildly. Leo came in, and stared. His mother never wept. He squared his shoulders and looked enquiringly at Bill. He said “What's wrong?”

Bill said “Nothing much. Honest. I'll look after her. You run along. I don't mean, go away, run along or anything. I mean, it's
really
OK, I'll look after her.”

They exchanged a shrewd, measuring glance. Leo went away. Frederica wiped her eyes and sniffed. Bill said

“He's as sharp as a needle. As quick as a fox. And wise for his years.”

“He's had to be.”

“Don't start crying again. We'll sort it out.”

John Ottokar came back from Christmas with his parents in Welwyn Garden City. Paul-Zag had stayed behind, with the Hearers. Leo greeted him at the door with a leap into his arms, crying John O, John O, John O, is back. Bill and Winifred welcomed him. Agatha and Saskia were away, visiting professional acquaintances of Agatha's on the UNY campus. After tea, Bill took Leo off to do reading-exercises. Leo said to John “I'm reading a document which Grandpa and Miss Godden have specially constructed for me ...” He said “It's to do with Agatha's story. It's printed, you have to see it, I'm reading it—”

“
He's
happy,” said John to Frederica, when they were alone. He held her in his arms, and kissed the top of her head. He touched her spine. It shivered with its own pleasure. “Are
you
happy? Did you have a good Christmas?”

Frederica said that it had been an odd Christmas. She told him most, but not all, of her thoughts about their odd incomplete family groupings, the single mothers, the grandparents-and-grandchildren, lone Daniel. She laughed drily over the idea of St. Joseph with the child who wasn't his, and the angels and the ox and the ass. She told him about the surprising alignment of Miss Godden, Bill Potter, Leo and the reading-scheme. She did not mention Stephanie. She said that Bill had suggested—she didn't know if he was serious—leaving Leo there for a term. She said it made sense. She said she didn't know what to do. She said she was responsible for Leo's odd life. John Ottokar's intelligent fingers massaged the nape of her neck, which prickled with grateful warmth. She asked, had John had a good Christmas.

John said, not really. He had been a token. His parents were worried about Paul. They thought Paul was taking drugs. They didn't know what sort of life he'd got into. I was a reflection of his absence, said John Ottokar. As usual. I was there, but I wasn't, because I was only me, myself. One child to them is half a child.

“Are you
sure
?”

“Oh yes, I'm sure.”

He turned the conversation back to Leo's reading-progress. Frederica said Leo said his mind was a maze of mirrors, he saw mirror writing, or his hands traced it. He would be happy here, she told John Ottokar. Inner cities aren't good for strung-up children. Her tenacious mind had a grip on that idea, and others were peripheral.

John said

“It all seems to lead one way, to my mind. I think we should get married, and you should find work here—in the University perhaps—and Leo could go to the school—and we should be a family, a man and a woman and a boy—at least one boy—” he said, and smiled a nervous, empty, anxious smile. Frederica bristled.

“That disposes of me very simply.”

“No, love, listen,
think
. You don't like him being in the city. I'm here, we're right together, there's the moors and the fresh air, and the University's humming with life.”

“And my life?”

“I'm not saying Leo and I are your life. I
am
saying, I think you can do something, anything,
anywhere
—you're a great teacher, teaching is
here
—I am asking, because you're the best thing I've got, have ever had, I have to
try
—”

He was gentle, and anxious, and something in him expected defeat. That expectation filled Frederica with self-distaste and a brief desire to hurt.

“And Paul?” she said.

“Paul's in there with the Hearers. I have to have my own life.”

“And I'm to be that life.”

“Yes.”

His arms were round her. Her body warmed to his. Her mind was cold and clear and unhappy.

“Is it important to be a television personality?” John asked, with false innocence.

Frederica snapped. “No. It's work. It's fun.”

Fun is a foolish, weak word. John stroked her flanks. She could feel her guts pull, and the empty space in her head. She had a vision of a man and a woman and a boy, walking over the moors, hand in hand. She remembered Nigel and his fierceness. She had married Nigel because she had listened to her body. And she did not have nothing to show for it, she had Leo. Could she do it again, for gentleness? What did she want? She didn't like herself.

At this point the doorbell rang. It was Jacqueline Winwar, who had come to propose to Daniel and Marcus—and John, since they found him there, and anyone else—a visit to the Hearers at Dun Vale Hall. To see how Ruth was. She said it would be easier to go in a body. Daniel, who had known she was coming, appeared from his room, and said he was ready. He went to look for Marcus. He thought Marcus would be disinclined to come, but Marcus said he was ready. Jacqueline asked John if he wanted to join the party. John looked at Frederica.

“I'm not coming. I don't like religion. I don't like groups. As you know,” she said to John.

“I might just go and see if Paul's OK. I promised the parents I'd go and see. Jacqueline's right, there's safety in numbers.”

“They don't bite, do they?” said Frederica.

“They might,” said Daniel. “Anything might happen. We shall look in on them.”

Frederica found herself briefly alone with Jacqueline. She asked politely how the other woman's work was going, and got a surprisingly detailed answer about neurotransmitters, axons, calcium ions, and the difficulty of the equations, which made Marcus's help absolutely necessary. She did not listen precisely to this answer, but did respond to the tone of enthusiasm in the sharpened voice, the sense of urgency in the expression of the newly-narrowed face. Jacqueline had always looked nice, and placid, and now she looked driven, and edgy, and unwell.

“You've been ill?” said Frederica, when Jacqueline came to a break in her explanation.

Jacqueline understood that Frederica had not understood what she had been saying. Her flicker of light went out. She said

“I've had problems. I'm fine now. I just need to get some clear results ...” She said politely “I saw you in the Box. It's all very witty. Must be great fun to do.”

“It's a way of earning a living. I have to earn a living.”

They stared guardedly at each other. Both had a sense of a cold space in their own heads, which they needed to protect, and yet were afraid of. Jacqueline thought briefly of describing to Frederica the muddle and horror of the miscarriage, and decided to keep quiet. Frederica was not a woman with whom you could be woman-to-woman, even if you were both trying to be something else as well. Frederica had an uncomfortable apprehension that Jacqueline knew what she wanted, knew what she was doing, much better than she herself did, and this was not a pleasant feeling, for she was used to being at least probably the cleverest person in the room, and was also used to Jacqueline being just a nice girl, a friend of Marcus. She could have said, how hard do you find it, being an obsessed intellectual, and a woman too, does your own biology bother you? But she didn't. She said brightly, distantly

“You ought to come on the Programme and tell everyone about neurotransmitters and all those things.”

Jacqueline said it was probably incomprehensible. Frederica registered a very small barb.